


service time

by ohtempora



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 12:27:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: They lose a game, lose a series. It's mid-August. The season is so long. Max strings together some hits, plays good enough defense, and it isn't enough to swing a game. Joe texts him,come over to mine, and Max gets up and goes.





	service time

**Author's Note:**

> happy sunday ewidentnie!!! 
> 
> 2016 was bad for the twins. 2017 was definitely better.

Joe texts him to come over after home games. Not all of them, but enough that Max learns to expect it, a thrum of anticipation shivering through him when his phone buzzes and he sees Joe's name come up on the screen.  
  
Their season's — going. They're not playing particularly good baseball. The Twins are on pace to lose 100 games. Still, it's major league baseball, and the shine hasn't worn off for Max yet. Every time he's at bat, he's hitting in the bigs. It's something. Even with the losses, it's not nothing.

But he sees the other guys struggle, gets how the shine can scratch off. It's going to be awful when he's sitting at home without a shot at postseason baseball.

They lose a game, lose a series. It's mid-August. The season is so long. Max strings together some hits, plays good enough defense, and it isn't enough to swing a game. Joe texts him; _come over to mine_ , and Max gets up and goes.

Joe meets him at the door. He's shirtless, in loose grey sweatpants. They're draped enough that Max can see he's hard. Max wonders — was he sitting on the couch, waiting for Max to get to his house, idly stroking himself and thinking about the last time they did this? Or is Max the only one who jerks off to every hookup they've had, bored and horny in the hotel during away games.  
  
“Hey,” he says.

In the clubhouse — Joe deserves every accolade given about his presence, his kindness, his willingness to open himself up to others. It's only here, not quite midnight with Joe's even gaze set on him, that Max understands how it can wear.

“No traffic?” Joe asks. Max shakes his head, toes off his shoes. “You want a beer?”

“I'm alright.” The buzz in his veins is enough, a car ride spent thinking of all the ways Joe's touched him, big hands covering Max's hips, big dick working him open.

He follows Joe to the living room. Half the time they end up in the bedroom, but it depends on what Joe wants.  
  
What Joe wants is this: he sits down on his couch, big thighs spread wide, enough room for Max in between them. Max drops to his knees. He knows what to do. He leans in and mouths over Joe's dick, the swell of it, waits until Joe's hand is in his hair. Joe lifts his hips and Max knows to tug down his sweats, wait for his dick to spring free. Joe's not longer than normal but he's thick, stretches Max's mouth at the corners, makes his jaw ache.  
  
Joe doesn't say much, if he says anything. Max knows to listen for his breathing, wait for it to catch. He slides his mouth over the head of Joe's cock, sucks, inches down. Sooner rather than later Joe will fuck up into his mouth.  
  
He likes it. He likes when Joe does that, when Joe takes. Joe pushes into him, Joe makes room, Max is a rookie and Joe is Joe Mauer and he deserves everything he wants, even if he's inching towards 100 strikeouts for the first time ever, even if he can't catch anymore, even if they're going to lose twice as many games as they win.  
  
Max relaxes his jaw and Joe's grip on his head tightens. He has leverage, sitting on the couch, and he uses it, thrusting up again and again. Max takes it. He closes his eyes. His dick is hard, he's caught between Joe's lap and his hand, and this is what he comes back for. Getting claimed like this. Letting Joe get what he needs.  
  
Joe's dick swells in his mouth and Max swallows around him as Joe fucks further and further in, until his hips twitch hard. Max blinks. His breath gets stuck and Joe comes, sour across his tongue. He jerks back and when his dick pulses with a final kick some of his come gets on Max's lips.  
  
Max licks it off, swallows.  
  
There's a moment where Joe looks at him, where Max likes to think he's the only one Joe's done this with, the only rookie he's taken and claimed and fucked, all for himself.  
  
Joe says, "Come up here," and Max does. Joe has an inch on him and 20 pounds, and when he tells anyone on the Twins to do something, it gets done. He scrambles up and settles in Joe's lap. He's so hard, his dick's wet and leaking and it won't take much. Joe's hand on him, a quick twist of the wrist. Or Joe could open him up and fuck him when he's ready, move them to the bedroom, take Max apart from the inside out.  
  
He doesn't do that. Doesn't do any of that. He twists his hand in Max's hair and tugs hard, until Max is half-up on his knees and he can more or less get rid of his sweats, his boxers, his dick popping out. Joe doesn't touch him, just pushes him down, slight pressure on his skull. He's straddling one of Joe's thighs, thick catcher thighs, coiled power in his quads. Some things don't leave when you switch to first base.  
  
"Get off like this," Joe says, and cups a heavy hand around Max's hip.  
  
Max says, "What?"  
  
Joe pushes, guides him, until he's grinding his hips, a slow dirty slide, dick rubbing against Joe's thigh. "Yeah," Joe says. "Like that, there you go." He's keeping his other hand in Max's hair, tugging tight, the sting of it forcing Max's gaze upwards, right at his face. Max can't look away and he wouldn't even want to, not when he can see the crow's feet branching from the corner of Joe's eyes and the smile lines around his mouth.

Joe kisses him and Max falls eagerly into it. He's riding Joe's thigh now, dick pressed against the bowl of his hip. After the game Joe shaved and his stubble scratches against Max's cheek when they kiss again.

It's slow going like this but Joe's patient, keeps a steadying hand on Max's waist as Max works his hips, his orgasm building slow, heat gradually spreading out from low in his stomach down his legs.

He comes when Joe tells him to, when Joe says, “You're ready, you're almost there, just like that, yeah, come on.” He comes all over Joe's lap, Joe's grip still tight around the back on his head, so Joe can see the exact second when Max's mouth drops open and his eyes flutter shut.

Joe doesn't let go until Max's breathing is evening out, kisses him slow and soft before shifting back into the couch cushions. Max wonders if he should say something — if they're going to move to the bedroom, but—

"Clean up after yourself." Joe looks at the  pool of jizz on his thigh, the streaks on his hip. "Come on."  
  
Max swallows, hard. "Uh—"  
  
"I already showered after the game."

Joe's hand in his hair, Joe's voice in his ear. Joe's the team captain, or fucking good as. Max is a rookie. Max bends down, face hot, and licks up his mess.


End file.
